


Pictures of You

by Doodsxd



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Character Study, Creeper Peter, Cute Wade, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Peter-centric, Pictures, Pining, Secret Crush, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 05:01:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6501757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doodsxd/pseuds/Doodsxd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fact is that taking pictures was never just a hobby to you, was it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pictures of You

**Author's Note:**

> This wouldn't leave me. 
> 
> I had something sexier in mind, but it got out of hand, as it usually does. Maybe I'll tweak with it later. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it anyway.

The fact is that taking pictures was never just a hobby to you, was it? Hobby is something you enjoy doing, but can let go of once it takes too much of your time, lay it aside so you can fulfill your duties.

It became an obsession.

You were twenty-three, but never smoked weed, got wasted or did any drugs, you fell in love once, never went to a pool party, never hid from your parent figures, never broke curfew, never went without being allowed to a concert or party.

You never even ditched lunch or dinner for an unhealthier alternative. Never got scolded by a teacher. Never went camping, never enjoyed a luau, never had sex unprotected, never went shopping unless there was a considerable hole on your sneakers.

You never kissed anyone without being in love with them. Never fooled around meaninglessly. Your grades were always high.

Basically, the only mistakes you ever did in your life was getting your uncle and your girlfriend killed, not paying more attention to what was happening to your best friend, and allowing yourself to be left behind on a school trip while a radioactive spider roamed freely enough to bite you.

And that was it. Even being Spider-Man was a selfless act. It would be easier to just hide your powers and stay out of harm’s way. You’d eat better, sleep better, have more time in general. But no. You hid everything from your widowed aunt and went patrolling every single night, saving New Yorkers from small criminals that went unpunished by the justice system and unseen by the bigger-scale superheroes.

That was probably the reason this was happening, though. People pushed you too hard, and then you pushed yourself too hard. You needed an escape. Beauty was an escape. So, you started out with plants, trees, little animals, flowers, the sky, some buildings.

It later escalated to pieces of people: hands, tattoos, hair, piercings, wrists, legs. At first you asked for permission, but then you figured no one else would see it, right? It was cool. It wasn’t like you were using those pictures to earn money or something. It was just to remind you life could be good. To surround yourself with the goodness the eye could see.

But then, well. Then you wanted to take pictures of the beauty you saw on those around you. People you knew, but that didn’t really know you. Like Captain America, the pinnacle of human perfection, who probably understood your urge to immortalize people and moments, since he drew a lot, and Tony Stark, with his fierce eyes and fierce arms, who was always scrawling little napkins and pieces of paper not to forget his own ideas.

Then it was Bruce Banner, his domestic concentration on the labs, softness that was the exact opposite of Hulk’s raw strength for those who didn’t know either of them. Thor, whenever he was around, and the way he always held his head high, like only a prince would.

Hawkeye was harder to get, but he was part of your collection, just like the Widow was. They were both stealthy, but while he was very masculine and compact, she was symmetrically built of gentle curves over smooth skin and tender flesh, at least on the outside.

It was wrong, it was invasive, but the guilty pleasure took you perversely, until you simply could not gnaw your way back. It made you move out of your aunt’s house, just so you could have more space, a dark room to allow the roll of film to become pictures you did not have to hide anymore – they were all over the place, hanging on your walls, allowing you to breathe easier while taking your breath away.

Obviously, no one was allowed in. It was no problem, however – you had no friends anymore, no love life, and your aunt apparently swallowed your excuses, interpreting  them as shame of your college-rated apartment, and left you alone.

And then Deadpool happened.

A man whose mouth was almost as loud and constant as his weapons, who talked to imaginary voices and was called in by the Avengers and by S.H.I.E.L.D. when the mission was particularly difficult. Someone who was so good at killing it was fucking undeniable: he was a force of nature; a whole new universe carved inside a deadly deathless man with a ruthless body covered in shifting cancer and scars.

His muscles flexed and relaxed while he danced between dead and live bodies that were idly trying to stop the unstoppable. He jumped and swirled around with an ease to rival the Widow’s, perfect coordination, and you could not, for the life of you, understand why everyone despised him so much.

He was a piece of art.

You sneaked into some missions and fights to take those first, tentative shots, but they were not enough. A new, more expensive lens and the shots became clearer, quicker, closer. And _fuck_ if the lines of his body, perfectly delineated by the blood-red spandex, didn’t make you want to touch, to _feel_ , to smell those rough edges and gunpowder skin.

Those cravings took you over one particularly cruel night, and you caught yourself shamefully watching those pictures dance beside your bed with the wind of the open window, hand sliding down from your chest to your dick to press on it, take the edge off, as if either limb did not belong to you, you had no control over anything.

Eyeing the door, the ceiling, the window, like the paranoid you were bound to become while doing something so twisted, your well-practiced fingers took your cock in hand and started to pump up and down, more heat pooling on your groin.

It was filthy, it was wrong, and even aware of it, you just could not _stop_. Your throat convulsed and your chest produced a growl, a whine, a gasp, and suddenly it was him on top of you, pressing yours against the mattress, his hand taking over your body like you were one of the man’s katanas, always ready to perform whatever dirty fantasy he wanted it to.

The slide of skin on skin made you moan, and with some lube you could almost picture his head bobbing on your dick, lips red and wet with spit and precome, and the picture it made alone had you coming so hard you arched out of the bed and took some time to get your head right again.

Imagining his body inside the suit, though… how was the skin? What was the color of his eyes? Did his dick crook to the left or to the right? Those became important information to turn your fantasies even more realistic, since imagination alone wasn’t cutting anymore.

Finding his house wasn’t all that difficult. Following him home was the next step, really, wasn’t it? Perched on the other building, camera with those big lens around your neck, you were ready to capture every single moment of his private life for your own guilty pleasure. It wasn’t like anyone else would see it, anyway.

One night became two, then three, and then one morning and two afternoons in a row. You almost got fired, but you had so many different pictures now. You had him lounging on his couch with chips and his mask rolled to his nose, you had him wearing nothing but a towel, you had him toying with an erection through his underwear while watching TV, you had him cleaning and caring for his beloved weapons.

It was almost like living with him. You knew how he laughed and what made him do so, you knew how he cried and how he blew his brains out whenever he got too restless to deal with his own shit. You saw how he cleaned the blood messily afterwards, talking to himself the whole time.

He was interesting, enticing, a light in your dull, boring life, and every single moment of freedom besides Sunday’s visiting hours with aunt May was somehow dedicated to those photographs: taking them, revealing, drying, pining.

Wade’s skin was scarred, his cock tilted to the right and his eyes were brown, just like yours. It was enough for your fantasies skyrocket through the roof, every time more elaborated, lasting moment longer, until that was all you could think about. Wade. His skin. His eyes. His hands. His thighs. His arms. His shoulders. His cock. His lips.

The fact that he would never know you put your old, Wade-unrelated photos on a box since the number of Wade-related ones was growing exponentially.

The fact that you slept surrounded by his image, the same image he hated so much.

The fact that there was probably nothing you wanted more in this life than for him to like you the same way you liked him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

You woke up to the smell of coffee and a warm body pressed into yours. Some oregano, some butter, harsh browns with cheese were gently cooking, maybe even eggs in a basket. It smelled like childhood.

You woke up startled.

“Didja really think that a professional assassin wouldn’t notice your escapades, _Peter_?” The voice came husky from behind you, and the thrill mixed up with pure animal _fear_ , because if Deadpool found out you’ve been taking pictures of him, he would probably jump to conclusions that would end up with your body down on Brooklyn’s river.

You decided quickly it was better not to say anything. The Merc chuckled, hand sliding down from your waist to your pelvis, almost touching the crotch area.

“You really don’t have to say anything, even though I think you should. I mean, I came here with a plan to kill you, because who the fuck would take pictures of me and not want to sell me or kill me themselves? Nonono, that should be impossible…” He sighed. “But then I break in and find almost a _sanctuary_ of me on every single wall of this apartment, and that simply cannot be jut murder intention. I know that for a fact.”

“And then, what a surprise! _The_ Spider-Man costume lying on the floor just beside your bed. I know it’s the real one cause I already touched it, remember?” He said and there was no air to breathe. Your lungs ceased to function, and rightfully so.

Hands caressed your arm in which should be a comforting motion. “Shh, don’t worry, baby boy. I won’t deliver you to some baddy, not after what I found out today…” A kiss to his nape and you arched your back against him, melting. You were probably dreaming anyway. Too good to be true.

“But if you wanted me so bad, all ya had to do was put a batsignal on the nightsky or somethin’.” He mouths the side of your neck slowly, behind your ear.

And what could you say to that? His lips were driving maddening little whimpers outta your chest against your will, and that was it. Coherent thoughts left you, didn’t they? All sounds became the steady humming of your blood rushing through your ears like an ancient song you should have never forgotten.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, the tension making your chest sink, your breath heave. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry-“

“Shh, Spidey,” Wade’s arms sneaked around you, encasing you in warmth and protection. “Relax. We’re not mad at you. We’re just… surprised, you could say. I never thought you’d feel that way about me.” Another small kiss and he inhaled deeply. “You smell awesome, by the way.”

“I can make it up to you, I can!” You brain was stuck up on guilt and you scrambled to move, to do _something_ , to give Wade a blowjob or anything that could make the ache in your backbone _cease_.

“The only thing you have to do is relax, Peter-Pie,” He turned you to him and you closed your eyes very hard, making him chuckle.

The kiss that followed melted and reset your brain. You hug him like he was your lifeline (he was) and the lip locking got considerable wetter since your eyes stopped cooperating.

“You wanna get breakfast? I cooked.”

You nodded.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

After that, you slept, ate, showered and repeated everything from the very beginning. And Wade stayed. He _stayed_. And you cooked, baked, cleaned, laundered, dusted, until he assured you there was no need. He would stay either way. Someone who figured he was worth all of that was someone also worth staying with.

However, even if he had stayed the next day, and the day after that, you never needed a reminder of how rare and fragile it all was.

So, you kept taking pictures, framing and hanging them. Of Wade, but of yourself too, to remind you that it was not a hallucination. Not just a dream. He deigned you good enough, despite your obsession, to be naked with. That could be nothing but a gift. He allowed you to take his pictures and keep them. That was a privilege.

The pictures did not bother him – your insecurity, however, did. That’s how you ended up introducing him to aunt May. And marrying him. And moving to a bigger place. And patrolling with him until you both decided to let the younger generation take over.

That’s how you ended up building a life with him. You never stopped taking pictures, though. Not to remind yourself that you weren’t dreaming, but to keep your dearest moments close to the eye. Close to your heart.

And when they all got burned down with your house and Wade growled furiously at the villain responsible for that, used your webs on the villain and your arms on Wade.

“Don’t worry, love,” You kissed him. “I’ll take more of them.”

“But _Pete_ -“

You shushed him and smiled, a bright smile on your face. “I love you.”

He smiled back, and that image would be in the forefront of your mind until you were no longer you, but a star he named after you to remind Wade you were watching after him.

Every twinkle, a picture taken of him by you.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
